I hate emotional lag. You make a rational decision to quit feeling for someone for a good reason. But the message takes a long time to get down to the frontal lobes, the primal emotional centre, and even when it does, it’s like Chinese whispers – diffused, meaningless, a slap on the wrist. See, I would like to withdraw the remnant emotions from a month ago and store them for better use. But I can’t. Which means I’m just not interested in anyone, a frustrating state of affairs.
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My dad gave me a package last night as he walked me down the driveway. What is it, I wondered. He dissolved into giggles. I pretended to open it. More rapid giggling, some pointing at the car and an attempt to push me into the vehicle followed. Thought: if I didn’t know better, I’d say my dad was hugely embarrassed. I drove off before he had a fresh spasm of laughter, and opened the package a hundred metres down the road. As I suspected, a packet of condoms. But not just any condoms. No, the packet had been specially modified: a lurid colour photograph of a syphilitic penis adorning the cover. Pustules, buboes, rotting flesh. Good god. And a letter about the practical perils of the joys of the flesh. I laughed for a long time in the car and again at home, providing my housemate with a gruesome show-and-tell. Housemate laughs. Housemate looks at picture. Housemate laughs again, a little less emphatically. Housemate pauses. Housemate wonders aloud whether he should get an STD test done.
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I have an eight thousand word essay to write in under two weeks. I’m doomed. I’m not normally this lax about work, especially not work of this size and shape, but this one seems to have snuck up. Eight thousand. 8. 8,000. I have maxed out my library card with 30 books – a personal first and photocopied innumerable articles. I have spent sixty dollars on microfilm printing at the State Library. I have, in short, a motherload of research, but very little of it in my brain and even less on paper. Think happy thoughts at me.
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My dad gave me a package last night as he walked me down the driveway. What is it, I wondered. He dissolved into giggles. I pretended to open it. More rapid giggling, some pointing at the car and an attempt to push me into the vehicle followed. Thought: if I didn’t know better, I’d say my dad was hugely embarrassed. I drove off before he had a fresh spasm of laughter, and opened the package a hundred metres down the road. As I suspected, a packet of condoms. But not just any condoms. No, the packet had been specially modified: a lurid colour photograph of a syphilitic penis adorning the cover. Pustules, buboes, rotting flesh. Good god. And a letter about the practical perils of the joys of the flesh. I laughed for a long time in the car and again at home, providing my housemate with a gruesome show-and-tell. Housemate laughs. Housemate looks at picture. Housemate laughs again, a little less emphatically. Housemate pauses. Housemate wonders aloud whether he should get an STD test done.
------------------
I have an eight thousand word essay to write in under two weeks. I’m doomed. I’m not normally this lax about work, especially not work of this size and shape, but this one seems to have snuck up. Eight thousand. 8. 8,000. I have maxed out my library card with 30 books – a personal first and photocopied innumerable articles. I have spent sixty dollars on microfilm printing at the State Library. I have, in short, a motherload of research, but very little of it in my brain and even less on paper. Think happy thoughts at me.
posted by Doug @ 10/25/2004 01:55:00 pm
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